Whisper Sweetly While You Touch Me Gently
by Hisa-Ai
Summary: "You're the one always... touching me. I think of the two of us, you're the one more likely to... initiate something like that," Merlin explained, squeezing on Arthur's hips, wry look on his face as he did so.


**This was kind of sort of inspired by the song "Untouched" by The Veronicas, and the bit in Taylor Swift's "Treacherous" that goes like,** _I'll do anything you say, if you say it with your hands._ **And the title is a line from the song "Girls" by Mayday Parade.**

 **Disclaimer:** I own nothing, as per usual.

* * *

 _Whisper Sweetly While You Touch Me Gently_

* * *

*.*.*.*.*

It wasn't that Arthur _wasn't_ an affectionate person, he was just... a different sort of affectionate, a physical person in a different way than most, more than anything else. Trained to be one of the finest knights in the kingdom, and raised to make a brilliant king one day, the different teachings tangled themselves together in his head—a level head, and emotions to be bitten back while discussing treaties and matters of grave importance, which left him without words to express aggravation and relief and happiness most of the time when it came to personal affairs, but a certain _passion_ with a sword and in battle that often extended _beyond_ training and bonding with his men, that made him want to be able to express such feelings in whatever ways that he _could_.

And so indeed, slaps and punches and hugs and handshakes and squeezes and lingering fingers spelled out _cheer up_ and _I was worried_ and _you're alive_ and _I'm angry_ and _I'm hurt_ and _I don't know what I'd do if I lost you_ and even _I think I'm in love with you_ **far** better and easier than actual words did half the time. It—touch—the language of the knights— _was_ a familiar language for Arthur, an easy one, and it never left him feeling bashful or embarrassed or shy the way actual words did sometimes, when it came to matters outside of court.

And when someone came into Arthur's life who _didn't_ seem to understand the language of the knights, it was usually simple enough to disentangle himself from them, to engage with them with a careful tongue and awkward distance to keep his hands from desperately trying to teach them a fluency they were not meant to grasp.

Until Merlin came along, that was. _Merlin_ , who was at training sessions day in and day out and yet _still_ did not seem to understand years down the road that hardened glares and thrown pillows and the occasional affectionate cuff to the back of the head were never meant to be malicious actions. _Merlin_ , whose tongue was quick, and touches were fleeting and careful in a way Arthur didn't understand some days, that felt like the touch of a servant and little more sometimes, that _could_ have felt like something _else_ sometimes, if Arthur thought about it long and hard enough.

But that wasn't enough. It wasn't the same language Arthur understood. Servant touches, Merlin touches, were... far too foreign for Arthur to _really_ decipher. And besides that, Merlin touches were far too few and in between for his liking, for him to get used to, though enough years had passed that Arthur _should_ have been a bit more fluent in Merlin's touches than he was, he also thought _Merlin_ should have been fluent enough in _his_ touches as well. But, ah, Merlin was more verbal, wasn't he? Always... _talking_.

Arthur wasn't like that.

Pep talks were one thing, getting his men prepared for battle, addressing his people and council and enemies—speaking of things concerning his people and kingdom and battles was _easy;_ the sort of things that fell from Merlin's tongue some days, however, were... a bit more difficult for him to grasp often, a bit more difficult to adjust to at first.

But he'd _wanted_ to. He didn't **want** to untangle his life from Merlin's, didn't want to keep that distance between them or keep his hands from trying to teach him a language Arthur had been fluent in his entire life, he wanted to communicate with Merlin perfectly in his own language, wanted to make Merlin understand what he meant, wanted to be able to understand Merlin's own language and be able to communicate with him by every means that he could.

And God, had he tried.

And year after year, day after day, he wondered how long until Merlin would catch on to the fact that every time his hands found the back of his head or his shoulder or arm or even his hand, that it meant more than it should have. He also wondered how long until he would catch on to Merlin's language, how long until he could even whisper the words he wanted to say to Merlin to himself in the darkness of his room without stuttering and losing his nerve—he was the _king of Camelot_ , for God's sake, why was it so hard for him to say three small words?

And why was it so hard for Merlin to understand that in everything Arthur did, he as good as said the words _anyway?_ They were _there_ , they were just... there in Arthur's language rather than Merlin's.

Why, after all this time, was there still this barrier between them, this obstacle that Arthur couldn't seem to get through or around no matter how he tried?

*.*.*.*.*

"Arthur?" Merlin murmured in that way of his, flitting about and carefully removing Arthur's armor from him after arriving back home from a battle that left them all bruised and bleeding, but alive and well at least.

His fingers were careful and never lingering for too long at a time, and Arthur was _sure_ that the only thing that was going to soothe his aching skin and calm the jitter still in his blood that such battles left him with, would be Merlin's fingers pressing into the bare skin of his biceps and reminding him of his own heartbeat, and the thrum of life still in Merlin as well, **that** would ease the doubts in the depths of his mind and heart. _Alive_ , he would know, they were _alive_ and they were _together,_ and the battle had been hard, and they had lost good men and brothers, but Arthur and Merlin were alive and together, and _**that** _ was the small solace that he thought only Merlin's touch truly could remind him of.

But Merlin's touch didn't stay on him any longer than it needed to, so the ache and jitter remained as they always did as he sighed back quietly, " _What_ , Merlin?"

"Are you alright?" he asked, settling the last of Arthur's armor on the table and looking over it for a moment before he walked back over to Arthur and helped him remove his tunic, everything aching as they did so, the flicker of the candlelight against the garment distracting Arthur as Merlin threw it down near his armor as well, torn and bloodstained in its own right and way that Merlin would later fix—of course he would, Arthur knew, his touch fixed _everything_ , and he was jealous, for a moment, that his armor and clothes seemed to know more of it than Arthur's body did.

"I know we lost some good friends today," Merlin added when Arthur remained silent, the question not one that Arthur could have answered right now anyway. "And I know the ones we didn't lose are... hurt. _You're_ hurt, but you made it home, Arthur. You fought, and you protected your people, and your men died with honor and bravery—their lives were not lost in vain, Arthur, you must know that," he finished, his voice stern and steady and still somehow soft and reassuring at once.

He didn't have anything to say, however, that Arthur didn't already know. So Arthur shook his head instead of answering just then, eyes caught on Merlin's as he stood in front of Arthur, waiting for a verbal reply or answer of some sort, Arthur knew, but the words would not come to Arthur under normal circumstances, let alone a moment like _this_ , and he was sure Merlin had to know that by now.

The candlelight and Merlin's suddenly too blue gaze reminded Arthur of the ache in his chest, across his arms and shoulders and back, some of it from the intensity of the battle, some of it simply from losing too many in too short a period, grief and loss and regret weighing him down in a way that made him want nothing more than to collapse into bed already.

"I know that," he managed at last, nodded simply before he brought his hands up to grab Merlin by the shoulders, muscles protesting as he did so, squeezing before he let them fall again from him, wondering in the moment before he turned away from him whether Merlin knew the easy squeeze to his shoulders meant all the appreciation and adoration that Arthur could manage to express in this tired, aching moment.

Though he was sure he knew the answer, and he was sure it was one that he wouldn't exactly like.

*.*.*.*.*

He was so used to Merlin not touching him enough, was so used to Merlin not understanding what his touches meant, that he didn't know what to make of it one afternoon after a training session when one of Merlin's hands found his forearm and gave a light squeeze, lingering and rather unnecessary, some might say, but when coupled with a nod of his head and a small smile... Arthur knew all too instantly what it meant, he just... didn't know if _Merlin_ knew what it meant, didn't know if he'd done it on purpose, or if it had been a fluke or.

 _Or._

There was always the chance that he had done it on purpose, that he knew what he was doing and what Arthur would read into it. There was just... always that chance.

*.*.*.*.*

He kept a close eye on Merlin after that simple moment, paid closer attention to what he did and how he touched Arthur, because just because he didn't touch Arthur in the way that Arthur liked or was used to didn't mean he didn't touch Arthur _at all_. And suddenly, after a day or two of observing and watching and paying attention, Arthur realized that Merlin touched him far more often than he was aware of.

When he pulled Arthur from slumber, his hands were on the king until the moment he was awake enough to function; when he tended to wounds and injuries, his fingers burned and soothed at once on Arthur's skin, always stuck on expanses that didn't need tending to while Arthur was distracted by the parts that _did_.

When Arthur was busy at his desk with papers and thoughts he didn't always want to be left alone with, Merlin was often nearby, moving about the room and passing by Arthur as often as he could, a fleeting touch to his shoulder or the back of his neck that he didn't notice until he started looking for it, until he started expecting it.

Arthur's touches were **there** , were done without apology, with the intention that Merlin needed to understand them, decipher them, know them and that he was leaving them with Merlin, expressing something in them, but Merlin's touches were stolen, were careful and almost hidden, and that was...

Arthur didn't know _what_ that was.

All he knew was that he knew where to look for Merlin's touches now, and that was all that mattered. He didn't always know what they meant, but knowing they were there was half the battle, he thought, he could figure out just what they meant... Well, later, he supposed. For now, he was content to just know they were there; for now, that was enough.

*.*.*.*.*

Until it wasn't. Until he _couldn't_ figure out what the touches meant. And then just knowing they were there wasn't enough. Did Merlin know that he knew about them, he wondered, did he ever think Arthur would catch on to them, would ever notice or wonder over them? Did he _want_ Arthur to notice or know or ask about them? Arthur wasn't going to ask, of course, _naturally_. But, he decided one morning with Merlin's fingers brushing against his chest as he held a tunic up to it, he could always _return_ the touches.

It was an idea that went into action _immediately_ with him brushing his fingers against Merlin's when he reached up to take the tunic into his own hands. Merlin pulled his hands back instantly, unsurprising enough, but it was a start, Arthur thought.

A start that quickly turned into Arthur's hand snapping up from his papers to the hand at the back of his neck whenever Merlin passed by him, into him leaning into the careful touches when Merlin was tending to a wound or applying a salve, the pain nothing when he considered that Merlin was actually touching him in those moments.

And eventually, it seemed that Merlin too started returning Arthur's touches as well, started leaving more and more unsaid with words and more said in the way he gripped at Arthur's wrist before a battle, tight and more piercing than any sword or weapon could ever be, in the way he returned the hugs Arthur engulfed him in after said battles with much more enthusiasm than he used to, in the way he bumped his hip or shoulder back against Arthur's whenever the king walked or stood by him and found himself with the time and opportunity to do said thing himself.

It was... all the more obvious that Merlin was coming to understand Arthur's touches, as Arthur was coming to understand his.

If only Arthur could start using his words in the same way that Merlin still very much did... well, then everything would be _perfect_.

*.*.*.*.*

It was normal after a while for Merlin's fingers to trail over Arthur's bare shoulders and arms when he was dressing or undressing the king, was normal for his touch to trail over his stomach and hips quite pointedly, to dip almost _too_ low on his body in a way that made Arthur bite his lip; that was a line neither of them had ever crossed or attempted to cross, was a line Arthur was almost _afraid_ to cross. Their touches could be seen as rather sensual at times, but _sexual_... Well. That was new territory that Arthur wasn't sure Merlin would _want_ to explore. And never mind that, actually, he thought, because if Arthur couldn't even tell Merlin that he loved him, he didn't know how he was going to cross **_that_ ** line either.

" _Arthur..._ " Merlin began suddenly, fingers running across Arthur's stomach from hip to hip in a careful way that sent a shiver down Arthur's spine, ceasing in dressing the king to do it.

"Mhm...?"

"Have you ever thought about..." his fingers stilled and gripped at Arthur's bare hips in a way that made him swallow, _barely_ able to focus on Merlin's words as he continued to speak, "... maybe..." he shrugged suddenly, face flushed as one of his hands moved from his hip, traveled down to trace over his clothed thigh, far nearer to his groin than Arthur thought his touch had ever been before.

As his breath caught in his throat, Merlin's eyes found Arthur's, coy and wondering and almost shy. He raised an eyebrow, and Arthur could do nothing but nod without sound.

"I... _yeah_ ," he nodded again. "All the time—or, not _all_ the time, but often enough," he blushed, reminding himself that _that_ was why he didn't say near as much to Merlin that he wanted to with actual words, chose instead to say whatever needed saying with touches and action; he couldn't embarrass himself as easily that way.

"So why haven't you ever done anything about it?" Merlin asked, hand moving to its rightful spot on Arthur's hip once again, air coming easier to Arthur once he did.

Arthur snorted then, " _You're_ the one who brought it up, why haven't _you_?"

" ** _You're_ ** the one always... _touching_ me. I think of the two of us, you're the one more likely to... initiate something like that," Merlin explained, squeezing on Arthur's hips, wry look on his face as he did so.

"You say that like _you_ haven't been touching me plenty yourself lately."

"I've only been doing that because... well _you_ started it," he insisted with a grin on his face. "You couldn't just tell me you wanted me to... hold your hand or that you were afraid of losing me or that you were happy to see me or... whatever it _is_ you're trying to tell me half the bloody time— _no_ —you knights are so... _thick_. Can't just tell someone you love them, you have to make them _guess_ at it. _Honestly_ ," Merlin huffed.

"Oi!" Arthur exclaimed suddenly, indignant and embarrassed at once, heart thudding loudly in his chest. "Who the hell—how did you—you don't just get to make my confession _for_ me, now when I say _I love you,_ it's not going to be as big a moment or mean as much. And how the hell did you already know?" he demanded with narrowed eyes.

Merlin gave Arthur another wry look and moved his hands from the king's hips to his own before he shook his head. "I know you lot—you knights—are... a _physical_ bunch, and you're all very fond of touching, but... you wouldn't let Leon or Elyan just run their fingers over your chest or hips or down your back in the way that you let **me** —and I know for _damn sure_ that you wouldn't brush your fingers over their collarbones or lean into their touches so... **affectionately**. I'm not _actually_ an idiot, Arthur."

Arthur opened his mouth, though no reply came to him, those were... good points, of course, all _true_.

"And, _Arthur_ ," Merlin began again, taking obvious advantage of Arthur's silence, his tone much more gentle now, "Any time you're ready to make your confession, I... well, I'll _pretend_ to act surprised, if you want. And it will _still_ be a big moment, will still mean as much, I promise you," he finished, gentle, careful smile on his face as he did so.

Arthur nodded once, allowed silence to take over the room for a long moment as he considered Merlin's words, his options. Merlin already knew _everything_ , there was no use denying it or going on trying to pretend none of it had happened or been said. Besides that, he suddenly _really_ wanted to kiss Merlin, and he couldn't very well do _that_ if he tried to pretend that he **didn't** love Merlin—and he couldn't have _that_ , couldn't _not_ kiss Merlin or confess his love in his own way and words...

With something of a smile on his face, he shook his head at last and reached his hands out, one to rest on Merlin's hip, the other to brush his thumb just under his jaw.

"This might come as something of a _shock_ to you, Merlin," he began lowly, teasingly. "But... I love you, and I _swear_ it would have been better if you hadn't said it first, but **_no_** , you just _had_ —"

The rest of his tease was cut off rather abruptly by Merlin surging forward to kiss him, one hand moving to cup Arthur's cheek, and the other settling in the small of his back.

"Prat," Merlin murmured when he pulled back for a short moment, Arthur's head swimming with the kiss he'd been left with and making him tug Merlin back for another kiss rather than retorting.

After, Merlin said, forehead resting against Arthur's, "I'm not sure how to say this in _knight_ ," he grinned, "but... I love you too, I—"

This time, it was Arthur who interrupted Merlin's perfectly good words by leaning towards him for a kiss, lips right and careful and savoring the moment as Merlin's fingers burned all the while against his skin, touch perfect, and all too understandable at last.

*.*.*.*.*


End file.
